Luke Delaney - Cold Killing

As he shuffled through the photographs, a folded piece of paper fell out. A letter. He opened it. It had been folded only once. He saw the blue handwriting, neat, but not ornate. Clear, but not printed. There was no sender’s name or address. It could only have been from one person. He began to read.

Thought these might come in useful. I used them to ensure his loyalty for a time, but I have no use for him now. He failed me. He shouldn’t have done that. I only regret I won’t be able to give evidence at his trial.

Sorry about skipping off. I’m sure you understand. I had no intention of becoming a corpse for the media vultures to pick over. Your fault entirely. I haven’t forgotten.

Imagine Gibran thinking he could outwit me. I look forward to seeing him again. I’ll have a nice little surprise waiting for that jumped-up fucker.

How are my wife and children? Crying for my return, no doubt. They don’t know what they pray for. If they did, they wouldn’t.

I’m sure we’ll meet again. I feel I still owe you something.

Sean held the letter for a long time. He had hoped he’d heard the last of Stefan Korsakov, but in his heart he knew he hadn’t. Korsakov liked games too much.

His desk phone rang, making him jump. He tossed the letter aside and answered. It was Kate.

“How are you doing today?” she asked. She had called him a lot more often these last two weeks. He used to seem so invulnerable. Now there was something tenuous about him. As if he might easily be snatched away.

“I’m doing all right,” he said, before she could continue. “Listen, I was thinking. Maybe we should get out of London.”

“And move where?” Kate asked.

“Well,” Sean answered, “I got an e-mail the other day. The police in New Zealand are looking to recruit British cops. I can even do a direct transfer as a DI. We’d get full residency. The kids would love it.”

“And me?” Kate asked.

“Come on, Kate,” he reassured her. “You’re a doctor. There isn’t a country in the world that doesn’t want more doctors.”

“What brought this on?” Kate asked cheerfully.

Sean looked at the letter on his desk. “Nothing,” he lied, remembering how close he’d been to falling off the edge-remembering being alone in the toilet, staring into the mirror and seeing the swirling darkness of his nature. “I guess I’m just sick of the traffic.”

Free, I was a thing of nightmares. Now, in my cage, I have become the object of morbid fascination. You lock me away to lock your fears away. You view me from a safe distance. The newspapers and television your window into my cage. The gaps between the bars through which you peer.

And what is it that scares you most? Is it that there’s a little bit of me in all of you? That little bit of madness waiting to be let loose? When that person standing too close on the underground stamps on your foot, they apologize and you tell them it’s all right, it doesn’t matter, but really you want to stamp on their head until blood and brains cover your feet. Instead you swallow the violence down. Keep the madness deep inside.

As for me, I’m not finished yet. The British legal system will give me a chance. Anything is possible. The judge will call my arrest and prosecution a travesty. The police will be lambasted. The media will rally to my cause. I’ll walk free from the court. Will there be cheering crowds? So many other killers have been greeted by cheering crowds, why not me? I’ll raise my arms in victory as I walk toward the waiting photographers. I’ll call to them, “Innocent. Proven innocent.”